


Thicker Than Ink

by Narroch



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-02
Updated: 2009-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narroch/pseuds/Narroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew that he still had personal demons to face, he would still desire his reflection in those dull gold eyes. Because, unlike Mytho, he could not simply turn his feelings off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this back in '09 on fanfiction.net. Moved it over here to save it from the Purge of Filth. Set before Ahiru shows up.

The double doors crashed open, hitting the walls with echoing force. Fakir, tall and dark, with an even blacker gleam smoldering in his eyes, stormed into the plush dorm room. He dragged Mytho behind him, the smaller boy allowing the iron grip about his limp wrist in silence.

"I told you to stay away from that girl, she's only trouble," Fakir growled out, tossing Mytho in front of him and turning to close the doors. He heard his mumbled response, the customary "I'm sorry". It was always given without even a hint of remorse, but neither was it rebellious sarcasm that tinted the reply. It was simply lifeless; a stale line read apathetically from a script.

He didn't really mean it, and sometimes Fakir wondered if he even knew what those words meant.

The older boy sighed as the door clicked shut, trying to contain his frustration; trying to keep it from turning to anger or worse, twisting into an even darker impulse that he himself still did not understand.

"Why can't you listen to what I say? If you just did what I told you, nothing bad would ever happen," still turned away, his grip on the door handles tightened as he thought of how he had found the girl draping herself across Mythos in the courtyard, her calculating eyes clashed terribly with Mytho's own wide and innocently-vacant gaze. Fakir felt his hatred for that girl boil up until it was almost a palpable emotion lodged in his throat.

Rue, her deceptive talk, her manipulative clingy behavior, the creeping sensation he always felt when near her...

She was no good; not for Mytho.

It was not jealousy that stirred that sentiment, or so he told himself, because Mytho would follow _anyone_ who led him along, but rather it was a fierce protectiveness that engendered his feelings. A loyalty that ran deeper than blood and thicker than ink. He wouldn't let anyone harm his prince.

Fakir swallowed forcibly before turning to look at Mytho. The dancer had landed in a rather helpless pile, and his eyes still expressed no concern about his being on the floor. Fakir rolled his eyes with a snort, and strode forward to grip his arm once again and yank him back up to his feet.

"How such a clumsy idiot like you got into a dance academy I will never know..." Fakir muttered darkly, though he knew the verbal attack would have no effect, just like everything else. Mytho was affected by none of it- the little tests Fakir put him through, the cruel jibes, or restrictions, seeing just how far he could push his control onto him, trying to find what it would take to make him finally snap back. So far, that boundary was still unknown. Mytho never reacted like Fakir wanted him to; never once resisting the daily abuse, not even _questioning_ him, just meekly accepting anything shoved onto him.

It only made the barbs of guilt burrow deeper into Fakir until they were past the point of pulling out. He couldn't forgive himself for the pitiful things he did, the childish badgering, and domineering; but even worse than his behavior were the thoughts he sometimes had, of even more terrible things he could do to try and shock a response. His compassion was numbed out from years of Mytho's continued apathy, and all he could do was cling onto those remnants of guilt and hold out on the belief that he would never do anything to _truly_ harm his prince.

But it was still difficult to care about someone who looked right through you.

And that was the most infuriating part of all, the fact that Fakir simply _couldn't_ stop caring. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get those dull gold eyes out of his mind. And Mytho was so vulnerable, so easily used and taken advantage of, that Fakir never felt at ease. Always having to obey the urge to follow the boy's every movement, censor every conversation, and oversee every decision. It was driving him mad that he simply could not turn his possessiveness off.

And that's what it was really, Fakir knew. It hadn't been Mytho who had changed their relationship into this farce of friendship, it had been _him_. Mytho had always been as detached as he was now, even when they first met. It had entertained Fakir greatly as a young boy. Mytho folded easily to his childish whims, Fakir was able to lead him around in their pretend games, protect and care for him as if he were a younger sibling. But as he grew older, Fakir began to resent the listlessness, began to feel disgust at Mytho's helplessness, and even anger at his lack of emotion.

Their relationship had changed because Fakir forced it to, because as he grew older he began to desire something from Mytho in return. Simple reciprocation, a smile, or a word, even a sole meaningful glance that singled him out from a crowd of strangers would have sufficed. But Mytho gave him nothing, he was as blank as ever and he did not acknowledge his existence beyond that which he acknowledged everything else. It made him feel sick knowing that after everything that they had been through together, Mytho would still treat him the exact same way he treated everyone else. _Carelessly._

Fakir's face twisted into a frown as he continued to stroke his annoyance.

"You just don't care about anything do you? Not dancing, not school, not Rue. So what's keeping you here?"

"I don't know," Mytho mumbled, staring somewhere below Fakir's chin.

"You don't know. Of course you don't, you wouldn't even know how to care for yourself if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know how to get dressed," Fakir replied, mocking derision laced through his voice. He was the one trapped in the turbulent cycle of wanting and loathing, but his anger always rebounded on the source of the turmoil. He shoved the smaller boy, watching coldly as he stumbled backwards before falling onto the bed.

Mytho was sprawled across the covers, like a living doll, motionlessly waiting for someone to pick him up and move him. The thought made something ache deep in Fakir.

"Why do you do this to me?" Fakir breathed heavily, flint in his eyes as he closed the distance to the bed. "Why do you make me feel like this?" he asked, more calmly this time, despite the darker feeling twisting inside him.

Mytho, still unmoving, still blank, looked up at Fakir's face that was blatantly struggling against anger, sadness, confusion, and calmly offered yet another quiet "I'm sorry".

In the face of his turmoil, those two words which in normal circumstances mended wrongs and smoothed frayed nerves instead only splayed them.

"Don't say that, because you _aren't,_ " Fakir ground out.

Mytho blinked slowly before responding, "But… I am…sorry."

Fakir felt his anger rising in a wave of heat as he gripped tightly on boy's thin shoulders and pressed down to hiss in his ear.

"No, you're not. You don't even know _how_ to be sorry, hell, you barely know how to be _human_!"

On some level Fakir regretted saying it. Mytho _was_ human; there was no doubt about that. He knew that; he knew the scars that patterned his skin, the way he twitched and sweat in his sleep reliving the same mysterious and distressing dream,he knew the boy was as real as the warmth of his skin, the soft breath that was now tickling across Fakir's face. He wasn't just a doll, because a doll would never make Fakir's heart twist in on itself as it did when he looked at Mytho.

"Mytho, look at me," his gaze had slid to the side with Fakir being so close, but he turned back and now stared at the dark-haired boy crouched over him. His eyes were a tarnished gold, dull and unreflective. Fakir could not see himself anywhere in those orbs, neither literally or figuratively.

"Mytho… look at me…"

"I am."

"No you're not!" Fakir bit out desperately.

"I am."

"You might be looking at me, but you can't _see_ me, damn it!" Fakir almost shouted. Mytho didn't have a reply to the accusation, and the silence only made the molten rage leap up further in the older boy. He shook Mytho's shoulders, trying to get a sound from him before pulling back and slapping him across the face.

"Say something, damn it!" it did nothing to pacify the frustrated anger that was still burning him up from the inside. And when Mytho turned back towards him, reflexive tears in his eyes and red hurt blooming over one cheek, looking almost alive despite his unchanged expression, it actually tempered the heat of his uncertain anger into a specific and atrocious function.

It was just another reason to add to the list of why he hated his attachment to Mytho. He was so desperate for a reaction from the boy that almost anything would excite and satisfy him, even if it was involuntary. Mytho's pain turned him on, because it was the only emotion that he could ever wring from him, and even then it was simply reflexive.

"God, Mytho… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" and he did not let Mytho speak, did not let him question his remorse, whether it was for the violence, or the hateful possessiveness, or for the searing desperate kiss he then pressed onto his unmoving lips.

Mytho didn't respond at all; he didn't try to push Fakir away, or press into it. He was limp and slack-jawed, allowing Fakir to slip his tongue inside, not because he invited the action, but because he did nothing to stop it, and Fakir was pushing down hard enough to bruise.

Fakir couldn't stop himself, and he despised that weakness. That he would deliberately force this onto Mytho just because he would not push him away (though it would be more satisfying if he did), terrified him. But it was impossible to pull away when those lips were so soft and warm...

The pale boy gave a small questioning murmur which was captured by Fakir's mouth, and the sound of which sent a live wire straight to the detestable jut of arousal between his legs. He groaned, overwhelmed by his body's eager response to such a small act. He vaguely wondered how he would react if Mytho ever regained his feelings and _he_ was the one to initiate such intimacy. The single thought sent his hands moving on their own accord, fingers fumbling blindly at the buttons of Mytho's shirt before giving up and simply sliding up beneath the fabric.

All the while their lips were sealed together.

Fakir breathed rapidly through his nose, unwilling to break the connection, still trying desperately to draw Mytho into the act, stimulate some reaction, _anything_ , to make the feeling go away, make him experience just one ounce of the anguish and passion that Fakir was drowning in. Instead Mytho turned his head away, finally breaking their lips apart. Fakir's heart leapt up in anticipation. Was Mytho finally going to push him away? Finally going to show some nerve?

But he said nothing, just laid still with his head turned, breathing in quick bursts. Fakir realized that this wasn't a sign of Mytho's rejection - he had simply been holding his breath while his mouth was occupied. His turning away had just been reflexive, like everything else.

"Mytho... stop making such a resigned face, like you don't even care. At a time like this, you should at least try to fight me," Fakir ground out.

And his hands, which had been idly stroking the baby soft skin of Mytho's belly, suddenly became harsh, gripping flesh, pulling at the confining shirt, ripping fabric until the pale slender chest was bared beneath him. He was muscular yet lithe, with just the barest hint of ribs beneath flawless white skin. His nipples were a pale pink, and Fakir dipped down to sample them, sucking harshly and rolling the nub between his teeth. Mytho tensed, but otherwise gave no objection. Growling, Fakir bit down hard, feeling his teeth almost connect through the flesh.

"Am I so insignificant in your eyes? What will it take to make you feel something?" he grabbed Mytho's throat, pressing harshly, but not enough to cut him off completely. "What will it take to make you speak your own words instead of just reading a goddamn script?"

Mytho's breath was heard as a strained wheeze, but his face still reflected nothing. Desperate, angry, turned on, Fakir released Mytho's neck in order to wrench his legs apart and settle between them.

"What will it take to make you come alive, Mytho?! Just tell me and I'll do it!" It came out in a heated rush, begging for a different way out, a different path than the one he had hurled the both of them down.

Mytho looked at him, as smooth and placid as the surface of a lake, and without even blinking, softly said once more "I'm sorry."

The fragile words were more than enough to shatter the last of Fakir's restraint, and he snapped spectacularly. His vision wavered on the cusp of monochrome before sinking completely beneath the black, as the words continued to whisper in the oily darkness of his head, a mantra of regret. Those moments were lost to him, blurred with frenzied movement as the emotional recoil within him pushed his strained and turbid libido forward.

When his senses finally caught up with his body, sound edging in just ahead of sight, so he could hear his own moans before he knew where they were coming from - he was pinning Mytho's hands down, grinding rapidly, almost frantically between Mytho's spread legs. Their clothes were still on, and Fakir didn't know how long he had been thrusting against the smaller boy, but his muscles ached, and his erection was already hot and hard and the friction of their clothes and the firmness of Mytho's unresisting body felt _too_ good, even when it started to hurt.

It was all coming undone. The fine vapors of resentment, and complete and total devotion, were indistinguishable and unavoidable. He couldn't stop, even though he desperately wanted to.

Instead he just avoided looking at Mytho's face, knowing that even now, during this act of pure passion, it would be like looking at a mannequin. He settled for biting the juncture between shoulder and neck, muffling the disgusting sounds of his own panting. He hated it, hated doing something so loathsome; he wanted to stop, he wanted Mytho to _tell_ him to stop, but there was nothing except the creak of the bed and the gasp of his own breath. He couldn't contain the overflow of his own emotions, and so he sped up instead, trying to reach a definite conclusion quickly.

He bit down so hard that he could taste blood, and somewhere in the blinding haze of his arousal and rage, he could feel Mytho's fingers bend slightly, then more forcefully, curling around his own hand. He didn't know if those slowly-clutching fingers were from pain, or perhaps something more, but it was the only response Mytho gave him of his own volition, and it was the sight of their tightly-entwined hands that finally pushed him over the edge, the heat of his anger transforming into the heat of release.

Pure white seared across his eyes, for a moment blocking out what he had done, for a moment the physical release made nothing matter. It lasted only a few seconds, and in a haze, he slumped, lying fully across Mytho. Slowly, his mind floated back into place, sinking once again into the mold he had momentarily escaped.

His hand snaked down, sliding beneath the boy's boxers; he didn't know what he had expected to find, but it didn't stop a post orgasmic chill from trickling down his spine when he felt the small limp flesh beneath his fingers. It seemed Mytho really _couldn't_ feel, not even something as base and necessary as arousal.

Fakir gave a sigh and rolled off, not looking at Mytho as he awkwardly walked away towards the bathroom, self-conscious of the wetness trapped in his pants. The climax had relieved the tension that had been building walls inside him, and he finally felt like he could breathe freely again. But at the same time he knew a boundary had been breached and he now faced an eerie and alien crossroad. He had done something selfish and terrible to Mytho, the one he was supposed to protect.

For what? What had he been trying to prove?

He quickly discarded his clothing, avoiding the wet smear coating the inside of his boxers, and stepped into the shower. He turned the faucet completely into the red, allowing the searing heat to rain down on him. It was hot enough to scald, tingling pain over his entire body, but he didn't even flinch. He needed the liquid pain, the cleansing heat. It would never be enough to wash away his sin, but it felt good to burn a little.

-

Fakir waited over an hour, taking his time to scrub his skin until it turned a bright raw pink. He didn't want Mytho to have to face him after what he had done. He was giving him every chance to leave before he reentered the room. He finally emerged, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, and stepped lightly into the room. It was dark now, the final dredges of twilight draining into night, and with none of the lamps on, the room had become a dim cave.

He blinked slowly waiting for his eyes to adjust before walking towards the bed. Would the covers still be rumpled in a guilty array, or pulled tight and smooth to hide the evidence? He didn't know what he would find or which would be worse, but neither estimation could prepare him for the shocking sight that froze him to the floor and wrapped his heart in a sheen of ice.

Mytho was still on the bed, the small outline of his body barely visible. Fakir felt the icy grip drop down to include his stomach as he numbly moved closer. Mytho hadn't moved, had not even so much as blinked, it seemed. His hair was completely disheveled, his shirt ripped and flung open, bruise and bite-marks across his body, and still, his face as empty and lifeless as a China doll.

Looking directly at the damage he had wrought, Fakir was suddenly overcome with nausea, felt saliva pool in his mouth as his knees went weak and buckled. He fell to all fours just as the first irrepressible surge of vomit rose from his throat, splattering in a strange sick design on the floor. He gasped, trying to breathe and retch at the same time, an impossible intersection of equally important motions. He could feel the tears, hot and heavy, perched on his eyelids until a violent jerking heave sent them rolling down his face to join the glistening slick trail of bile. He couldn't even lift his head as the waves of nausea continued to buffet him, all he could do was moan out senseless words between the choking fits.

"I'm sorry... Mytho..."

The tears and dry heaves continued to roll out of him, even though there was nothing left.

"I'm a monster," he said, more calm, more determined in his verdict. There was no need to hide it anymore, he had destroyed their delicately-balanced relationship because of a thoughtless whim. A fruitless idea that if he pushed hard enough, Mytho would push back; but instead Mytho simply shattered. And the worst part was, he didn't seem any different than before it happened. It had meant nothing except creating a new low for Fakir's self-hatred to dwell and fester in.

He shivered and jerked with yet another futile attempt to drain his already-empty and he suddenly felt a pair of small hands rest upon his bowed head, smoothing over his hair and gathering it up out of his damp face. Mytho was holding his hair back, and gently cradling his forehead, comforting him through the sickness.

Fakir felt his heart shudder to a stop while the air grew cold and stale in his lungs. His mind softly boggled as Mytho continued to pull small strands of hair back.

How could he be showing such kindness? After what he had done to him?

Slowly, he raised his head and blearily peered up. Mytho was sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, and still holding his hair, the dark strands creating stark interstices across his pale skin. Fakir blinked, trying to clear the film in his eyes, if he could really believe what he was seeing.

It was a false impression. Mytho's face was still void, even as his hands continued to soothe away the hurt. But Fakir was drained, in more ways than one, and couldn't stop himself from indulging in the illusion. He slumped forward, allowing his weight to fall into Mytho's arms. He was only vaguely surprised by the strength he felt in them, how easily he was cradled by the deceptively-thin limbs.

Mytho wasn't weak. He just was empty, never reacting.

 _Except now_...

When Fakir was finally breaking, falling, only then did Mytho move to catch him.

He could not pretend that it was love that motivated him; no, Mytho was too insubstantial, too shadowy for love.

Danger was the sole phenomenon that animated him; it was the only time Mytho ever moved without someone telling him to. Whether it was to catch someone who tripped, or leap from a window to save a tiny falling bird,he would always hurl his own safety aside to save someone else. But even that was always automatic. Still just as removed from the act as everything else Mytho did.

But now...

Now, while Fakir was kneeling before him, being cradled in his arms, there was no real physical danger. Despite how sick the older boy felt, he wasn't going to choke and die, and yet Mytho was still holding him up, stroking his head, comforting him. It was as if in that moment, he truly _cared_.

Fakir knew he was deluding himself, but for his entire life he had never seen Mytho as a person; never seen him as a separate individual with a life apart from allowing or interfering with his own, and so the small caresses felt like blazing promise.

Promise of life, of emotion, of humanity.

And also a promise that there _was_ a real reason all those things had been locked away.

There was a purpose to Mytho's vaporishness.

Fakir sniffed, trying to regain some self-control before looking up. The darkness of the room had lifted somewhat, moonlight that had once been blocked by a thick cloud bank was now streaming into the room. It complimented Mytho's pale features, made his skin look iridescent, and the messy edges of his hair turn luminous. From Fakir's miserable spot on the floor, Mytho seemed to glow.

So beautiful, and yet so cold.

No one would be able to truly love someone so distant, they would only want to use him. Take advantage of that timeless beauty; abuse that rare innocence.

_Just like he had._

Perhaps that was why Mytho was emotionless. Because nothing could touch him, nothing could hurt him. His beauty would remain forever unblemished by the violent vicissitude of emotions, the same ones that left his abuser crumpled on the floor, crippled by his own humanity. Being so passionless meant that he could even _comfort_ his abuser.

Fakir slowly swallowed, forcing back the guilt with this new revelation. He stood up, slightly wobbly as Mytho's hands fell away, and with only the tiniest break in his voice murmured, "Come on... Let's get you cleaned up."

He picked Mytho up, and avoiding his mess, headed back into the bathroom. Carefully he set Mytho in the tub and began to undress him, methodically, platonically.

As the warm steamy water began to fill the tub, he took a washcloth and rubbed it tenderly across Mytho's back, taking extra care around the bruises and bite-marks. Mytho could clean himself on his own, but Fakir felt a duty to wash away the stains he had left, in his own strange form of apology.

As he washed, lulled by the rhythmic motion, he contemplated on where to go from here. It was obvious that Mytho's lack of emotion was beneficial in a way, and even if he knew how, Fakir could not take that defense away from him, since it was the only one he seemed to have. He also knew that he would still have personal demons to face, would still feel anger, possessiveness, he would still desire his reflection in those dull gold eyes.

Because, unlike Mytho, he could not simply turn his feelings off.

Rubbing slightly harder, white skin turning pink, he knew on a lower level that even though he regretted it, this wasn't going to be the end. He was still going to act on those dark emotions. Perhaps not right away, but eventually, it would happen.

He was going to snap again. Because he was the only one who loved Mytho, but it would never mean anything. And if he, the one and only person capable of loving such a lifeless being, was unable to bring emotions out of him, then how could anyone else possibly do it?

Growling softly in his chest, he pulled Mytho closer, embracing him from behind to whisper in his ear. "You need only listen to me and do what I say... I promise I will protect you."

He wouldn't let anything else stain the blank canvas Mytho had become.

 


End file.
